A letter
by HRFan
Summary: Set some time after the end of series 9, Spoilers and speculations for 9.7 and 9.8….not sure whether to leave it at that, or to add a couple of chapters…you decide!  Thanks for reading….HRFan.
1. Chapter 1

**Set some time after the end of series 9, Spoilers and speculations for 9.7 and 9.8….not sure whether to leave it at that, or to add a couple of chapters…you decide!**

**Thanks for reading….HRFan.**

A letter: Ruth to Harry.

Dear Harry,

By the time you get this, you will have returned from your annual leave, and I will have gone. We've become so estranged from one another, you and I, that I don't know how to talk to you anymore. I sit at my desk, and know that you are in your office across the Grid, and whereas in the past I would think nothing of coming over and sharing with you snippets of information and operations-related worries, or of joining you on the rooftop to look at the London skyline, now I dare not do that. Not even to tell you, to your face, that I have decided to leave MI5.

I could have done it without saying anything at all, not even in writing. And yet, we have so much shared history you and I, there are so many unsaid things between us, that it feels as if I have no choice but to pick up a pen and try to convey why I cannot work with you, _under _you, any longer.

For this is the problem, isn't it? From the moment you asked me to marry you and I said 'no', we have been unable to handle those shifting boundaries between us. One moment equals, the next unequals….from would-be husband-and-wife to boss-employee…We couldn't do it, could we? Rather, _I_ couldn't. I know that I pushed where I should have left it well alone. I took initiatives and took on a role in the Grid which were not mine to take, and with the benefit of hindsight, I can see why you were so angry with me over this. I undermined your authority, out of arrogance and blind faith in my intuition, and I am so sorry for that – more than I can say.

The problem is that I can't revert back to being good-old-dependable-biddable Ruth. I am not the woman I was when I first came to the Grid, all those years ago, giddy with excitement, infatuated, so desperate to please you. Too much has happened to me, to us, for me to be your quasi-military subordinate. And it's not because (or at least not merely because) I am ten years older and have lost and given so much to the Service. It's mostly that I have, at long last, knocked you off the pedestal where I had so firmly put you all this time.

Re-reading this, it sounds awful. But please don't throw this letter away now. Keep reading it. Read that I love you. A few weeks ago, you told me that you sometimes have to give a man the chance to show who is really is. But I do know who you are, Harry. At least partly. I've seen, or guessed, the very worst you are capable of, and the very best. I've seen you vulnerable, in tears, cold, angry, frustrated, aroused with desire, lost, kind, loyal….I've seen all of that, and I _love_ you. I want you too, for good measure. There. I've said it. I want to know what I don't know yet: what it would be like to hold you in my arms, and to have you hold me, what it would be like to see your face as we fuse together and to give myself to you…

And that's why I can't take orders from you anymore. It's not simply that I love you so much that I can't imagine what it would be like to stop loving you; it's not simply that I want to relate to you _only_ as an equal, in every way; it's also, of course, the fact that since Lucas' death, you have made it so clear that this ship had sailed. I have no recollection of what happened on the roof at the end. All I remember is Lucas shooting, you screaming my name, and then nothing. The next thing I knew, I was in hospital, swimming in pain, and you were nowhere in sight. Oh, you came once or twice to visit, and made polite chit chat. But whenever I brought up our relationship – correction, our non- existent relationship - you brushed me off. _This is not the time_, you kept saying_, now is the time to recover, you were in a comma for a week, so this is not the time…_ I was hoping that we'd be able to talk after my sick leave, but then too you found ways to say 'no' on the two or three times I suggested we grab something to eat together, or have a drink. You did it very kindly of course, but still, I do recognise a brush off when I see one. It never is the time with us, Harry, is it?

I so wish things had turned out differently between us. How is that for the understatement of the Millenium…What grieves me the most, beyond anything I can describe, is not so much the fact that I have lost you as a lover (in the full sense of that devalued word) before I even had you; it's the fact that I've lost you as a friend. The pain of that loss is physically unbearable. And that's why I have to go.

I'm not expecting you to reply. Perhaps I shouldn't have written. Then again, I think I owed it to you to be honest, for once, about my feelings for you.

I hope that you will find happiness one day. With someone else, or alone if solitude really must remain your constant companion. But happiness nonetheless.

Ruth.


	2. Chapter 2

2

A letter 2

Harry to Ruth

Dear Ruth

Forgive me for taking so long to respond. I got your letter on my return from leave two weeks ago, and did not quite know how to handle it. Not that I have any better sense of what to say now….

I look towards your desk more than is good for me, and I can't stand not seeing you there, bent on your files or staring intently at the computer. I sit at meetings, and listen to the analyst who replaced you (you would hate him: typicall Chinless Timothy in his Whitehall uniform), and try desperately not to resent him for not being you. I train Beth and Dimitri, under the shadow of your absence, and long for the days you would barge into my office without knocking…

And yet…I am also so relieved that you are not here anymore. In the last few weeks I couldn't bear the tension between us anymore than you did. And it is true that you suggested we go for a drink, and yes I turned you down instead of grabbing with both hands the opportunity to clear the air with you.

It's simple, really. As you know, you were in a coma for a week. For the first couple of days, the doctors were very pessimistic about your prognosis, and told me I should prepare myself for the worst. Although they knew I was not your next of kin legally speaking, they treated me as such. So did the nurses. I was always there, you see. During those long days, I did not leave your bedside except for quick showers and during consultations. I barely slept or ate. I just sat there, waiting, hoping…

Towards the 6th day, you started emerging from the coma. And as sometimes happens in those cases, when unconsciousness turns into dreams and nightmares, you began to moan, cry, and talk. I cannot begin to transcribe for you, in this letter, what you said, partly because it would take far too long but mostly because _all _you talked about was George, Nico, Cyprus, and me. You cried about George's death. You cried about losing Nico. You wept about my inability to open up to you, about the opportunities we have wasted you and I…

Much of this was fragmentary and hard to follow at times, but still, no one could have missed the depth of your anger towards me as well as yourself, and the magnitude of your grief over Nico. And yet, I sat there, hour after hour, wiping your tears off your face, trying to ignore the puzzled and pitying looks of the medical staff, and clinging to my hope that you would, at some point, say in your sleep what you have never been able to say to me to my face- that you love me. But you never did.

And so when you woke up, I stood aside. It was pretty clear that you had no awareness whatsoever of what you had unwittingly revealed in those twilight moments between unconsciousness and consciousness. But I knew, you see, what you really felt. And I couldn't behave as if I didn't know.

I think that you will understand now why I have kept you at arm-length since you came back from the hospital. What you don't know is how much it has cost me. I love you. I don't think you have any idea how much I do. Then again, I never told you...I love your intelligence, your quirks, your sheer brilliance. I love your compassion and your strong moral compass. I love the fact that you don't drink tea from a mug but from a china cup. I love the way you bustle around, brimming with ideas. I love your ability to elicit trust and respect and affection from all those who work with you. I love the fact that you sing.

And I want you. So much. Of that too you have no idea. Of what I want to do to you, with you, if only we could be together. But we can't. You tell me that you love and want me. I have no doubt at all that it's true. But I can't and won't take the risk of making love to you only to hear you shout his name. Of waking up by your side because you cried out for your lost son. Of having you accuse me of his death, of that loss, when we row, as we inevitably will. I love you too much, and have far too much self-respect, to put us through that.

So yes, however much it pains me to say it, that ship has sailed. It can't be otherwise. You wish me happiness, with someone else or alone. I know that I will never love anyone as much as I love you, and I don't want to settle for anything less. So solitude it will be, then…I am slowly reconciling myself to that. But don't do this. You have so much time ahead of you. You can still have children. You can still enjoy a fulfilling, happy life with someone less reticent and limited than I am. What you couldn't have working here, at MI5, you can have whilst working at GCHQ. Make the most of it. Please. Don't waste your life on an unfulfilled dream of happiness.

Harry.


	3. Chapter 3

A Letter 3 – Inter Services Conference

From: .

To: .

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear Ruth,

As per our conversation this morning, and despite your reservations it is imperative that you should go to this conference. A number of us at Six, Five, GCHQ, Special Branch and the Serious Fraud Squad have long held the view that cooperation between all services needs strengthening – as does cooperation between our side (and all its constituent elements) and foreign and transnational services.

Interpol have taken the initiative, and their proposed conference in Paris should, we think, prove crucial to those ends. As one of our top analysts, and in the light of your linguistic skills and your unparalleled experience with working with MI5's Counter-terrorism section, I can think of no one better qualified, from the analysts' desks, to go.

As your line manager three steps up, I am therefore instructing you to make travel arrangements forthwith. You have shared your reservations with me – in particular your 'difficult relationship' with Harry Pearce. The conference, as you know, will gather 200+ people. Assuming that he goes, and that is by no means a foregone conclusion, I should like to think that you would not necessarily find yourself in the same room, and that if you do, you will conduct yourself with the kind of professionalism which you have shown since transferring back to us.

John.

From: Ruth Evershed

To: John Anderson

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear John

You can be assured of my professionalism.

Ruth.

From: .uk

To: .uk

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear James

I do not see why my presence at this jamboree is required: surely I am of more use to our country at Thames House than in Paris, uttering the same old platitudes and listening to the same old clichés?

Harry.

From: Director General

To HArry Pearce

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear Harry,

I am afraid that this is one occasion on which I cannot and will not take 'no' for an answer. I will expect a full report on your return.

James.

From: Harry Pearce

To: Dimitri Levendis

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dimitri – please get me a list of _all_ delegates. Thanks.

H.

From: .

To: ..org

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear Ms Jones

As liaison office between Interpol and British Security Services, would you be able to send me an encrypted list of all delegates? I shall be going myself but we do need to collate and check some information on some people – nothing to be worried about, just routine. I am told that MI5 are sending some of their people, and I could take it up with them, but what with the recent multiple bomb scares on the London tube, I doubt that they would be able to deal with my request.

Many thanks in advance

Ruth Evershed, Senior Analyst, GCHQ.

From: Dimitri Levendis

To: Harry Pearce

Subject: InterServices Conference

Harry – here it is, attached. 200+ people. Beth and I are scheduled to leave tomorrow morning to assess the lie of the land. Tariq is done with our legends. Let me know whether there is anything else I can do before we leave. Otherwise, we will meet you there.

D.

From: Dimitri Levendis

To: Beth Bailey

Subject:

Beth – check out the attached, under GCHQ. Should we do anything?

D.

From: Beth Bailey

To: Dimitri Levendis

Subject:

Only if we want to lose our jobs. Oh, and delete this email and the one you sent me, please.

B.

From: Sarah Jones

To: Ruth Evershed

Subject: InterServices Conference

Dear Ms Evershed

I attach the list you requested. MI5 are sending a few of their people – that's correct – from the rather top end of their paygrade, I must say! Not to say the aristocracy….

Do let me know if there is anything I can do at this end before you leave London. I look forward to meeting you in Paris.

Sarah Jones.

From:Harry Pearce

To: Ruth Evershed

Re: Paris

Dear Ruth,

[Moved to Deleted Folders.]


	4. Chapter 4

3

**Letter 4**

**Sorry for the long, long wait til this update. I didn't know where to take this fic **_**at all**_**, but I **_**think**_** that I have found a way…**

**I started it before the end of series 9, so it now is very much AU: Ruth was on the rooftop with Harry and Lucas, Lucas fired a shot, there was an explosion, Ruth got the brunt of it and is in a coma. Harry did not give away a state secret for her, so no inquiry etc.**

**Thanks for reading, those of you who still are! And for the reviews too without which none of this would ever **get** written.**

**1. **

The hall of the conference centre is bristling with delegates. She stands on the threshold, heart in her mouth, trying not to scan the crowd for Harry. _A bomb here would wipe out the upper echelons of most intelligence services_, she thinks grimly. _I wonder whether terrorists thought of that_.

She makes her way to the registration desk, and spots Dimitri and Beth. _I should be with them…stop it, _she orders herself. _You made your bed, you lie in it. _She picks up her badge and conference pack, and quickly reads the list of talks. She is down to give a talk that afternoon, on intelligence and cyberwar. Harry is also down to give one, later that day, on budgetary constraints and intelligence gathering. _He must have enjoyed preparing for that_….There's a parallel session on the connections between organised crime and terrorism. _I'll go to that one. That way I won't have to face him…_

She sighs. At least she's booked herself a long weekend after the conference. Paris is Paris, after all, and while she would much rather not be on her own, in this most romantic of cities, she can at least take what is given her – a return Eurostar ticket curtesy of Her Majesty's government – and make the most of it.

She steels herself and walks to the lift, purposedly. Time to take possession of her room, grab a shower, and gather her strength for the endless networking which those conferences are there for.

'Ruth'.

She freezes. He is standing in front of her, having materialised out of nowhere.

**2. **

He'd seen her walk in. He thinks she has seen Dimitri and Beth, but not him. And however determined he was not to make a point of seeking her out, or letting her be, he can't help it. He very nearly runs to get her before she takes the lift. He calls out her name, the soft syllable rolling off his tongue, she looks up and it takes all his willpower not to gasp. She's lost weight, so much so that he can discern her collabones. Her face is drawn. Her eyes, those wonderful eyes which he misses so much, are dulled with sadness.

His throat closes up. _Have I done that to her…._

'Harry', she says flatly, her inner turmoil hidden from him.

He clears his throat. 'How are you?'

She shrugs. 'Pretty good. You?'

'Alright really', knowing full well (after all, he did take a look at his face in the mirror that morning) that his ever deeper lines and hollow cheeks do not exactly indicate unmitigated happiness.

'Well. If you don't mind, I've got to…', she gestures towards the lift.

'Oh. Yes. Yes of course. Well. Enjoy the conference, then.'

She smiles at him briefly, and then she's gone, and he is standing there, desolate, knowing full well that he has only himself to blame for it.

She is alone in the lift, mercifully, and leans heavily against the wall, her hands shaking, clammy with perspiration. _There. It's done. You've seen him, and strung two sentences together and not collapsed. Done. _

She gets into her room somehow, and sits on the bed. She doesn't take in her surroundings.

Her eyes are filled with tears.

He makes his way to the bar, after exchanging brief words with Beth and Dimitri. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. He wants to nurse his pain, his doubts and his regrets on his own. _Two days_…_two_ _days of inane chatter, useless seminars and overlong dinners, and we're done. _He looks down at his whisky, the amber pewtey taste of the liquor for once doing nothing for him. He sets down his glass on the counter abruptly and goes up to his bedroom. Furious with himself, angry with the DG for making him come, terrified to think that this letter which he wrote to her might have been the second mistake of his life after his neglect of his children, unable though to overcome his sense that it really was for the best….

Rageously, he sends his files flying onto the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

6

**Letter 5**

**Sorry for not updating sooner…work has been mad. And I was losing appetite for this story. But I don't like unfinished business so…Besides with all the Berlin stuff coming out, I wanted wrap up this Paris one….**

**THAnks for the reviews, as ever!**

**Paris Conference, final day**

**1.**

The conference centre caferia is almost empty…Three hours to go, and she can go home – her talk done and well received, though Harry's conspicuous absence was hard to take. She went to his – hid at the back of the room. Saw him hobnob and charm his way through a crowd of equally highly placed intelligence officers from all over the world. Noticed Beth and Dimitri always hovering near him, sometimes glancing in her direction…

Two days of avoiding him, and she is exhausted. She stirs her coffee absent-mindedly, eyes gritty, skin tight under the relentless assault of the air conditioning. Thank God she is booked on the Eurostar. She can't help feel sympathy for those of her colleagues who are booked to fly back home, and who are stranded in Paris as a result of an air traffic control strike. 'Penny for your thoughts?'

She looks up sharply. 'Beth. Hi.'

'Hi', the younger woman nods gently. 'How are you?'

'Fine', she shrugs. 'You?'

'Oh, you know…conferences are not my thing. I'm more the action girl. But Harry insisted so…'

They fall silent – an awkward, tense silence. 'Ruth…'

'Yes?'

'Harry needs you…'

'Excuse me?', she stiffens.

Beth blushes. 'No. I mean. MI5 need you. _We_ do. There's been some disturbing intel coming in about one of our undercovers agents in Marseilles.'

'We have an agent in Marseilles? A _British_ agent? The French wouldn't be happy if…'

'They know. It's a joint operation. We set it up after you…after you left. His family is from Algeria. They came to Britain in the 80s. He is supposed to be an Al Quaida operative, here to train radical Muslims based in France in subversive tactics, and so on. That's his cover for the terrorists cells. His official cover is as manager of some holiday rentals in Cassis, near Marseilles.'

'And?'

'And he's disappeared. Off radar. Harry's worried. We all are: he was supposed to report every twelve hours…he missed the last one. Three hours ago.'

Ruth sighs. Her loyalties really will always lie with MI5, no matter what, and even though this man is not her colleague strictly speaking, she already fears for him as if he were. 'Where do I come in?', she asks testily. 'I was replaced, wasn't I? So why me?'

'Because Andy, your replacement, isn't here. Stuck in London. And to top it all, the French railway workers are planning an impromptu strike starting in two hours. That includes the Eurostar. So we can't bring him in. Or Tariq. On top of the air traffic control…bloody French', she mutters darkly.

Ruth gets up with a sigh. 'Fine. Let's go.'

**2.**

She should be here any minute now. He needs her, now more than ever. He needs her sharp analytical skills, her ability to think off the beaten track, her talent for connecting seemingly unrelated strands of information. He needs her calm presence at his side, he needs to see those eyes of her, he needs…

'Hi'.

He turns round quickly. She is standing in front of him, not too close, rather far in fact, her eyes very guarded. 'Hi. Thanks for coming. Beth has briefed you, I take it? Good. Here's what we…'

'Where are the French?'

'Excuse me?'

She points to the room – empty apart from Beth, Dimitri, and the two of them. 'If this is a joint op, where are they? Why are they not here, with us, dealing with this?'

'Their own undercover officer doesn't know we have one. For safety…and ours…'

'Doesn't know there's a French undercover. I see.'

'Yes. So the French are…'

'Back at their headquarters, pretending that nothing is happening, making sure that the terrorist cells don't get wind of anything abnormal.'

'Exactly. Got it in one', he smiles, seized by a pang of sadness when she looks away.

'So what do we do?'

'We analyze everything we have. Then we decide on a plan of action.'

'Without a section chief.'

'We do have one.'

'Where? Who?'

'You', he says simply.

'Wow. Wow', she shakes her head and walks towards the door. 'I didn't sign up for this. Section chiefs are always field officers. And I'm generally hopeless in the field. I'm an analyst, I don't plan _operations_, I don't…I'm not…'

'Finished?', he asks calmly with steel in his voice. 'Good. Now listen. You might be working at GCHQ these days, but you are first and foremost an intelligence officer. And for this operation, you've been seconded back to section D. Which means that I am your commanding officer. And as such, I am of the opinion that you are perfectly capable of acting as section chief for this operation. For all I know, we might hear from him in the next hour and we can all go home as soon as the strike is over…'

'You don't believe that for a second, Harry, so please don't insult my intelligence', she cuts in. 'And what do you mean, seconded back?'

'I cleared it with your boss twenty minutes ago. Can we get back to work now? The life of one of our agents depends on it. That means anything to you? Or are you so deep in numbers and codes these days that…' He stops, apalled with his ruthlessness and insensitivity.

'You bastard', she whispers, white as a sheet. For all that the others are here, it really is just him and her, locked in this room, in their hopeless non-relationship, battling it out. 'I'm sorry', he says more softly. 'Truly sorry. I shouldn't have said that.' He rubs his face with his hand. 'It's just that…You're right. I don't believe we will be done in an hour. I'm worried. Very, very worried. So will you please help us through this?'

She looks at him for a long, long time. 'Fine. Give me what you have.'

**3.**

'We don't have enough to go on', she says, frustrated, two hours later. 'Without Tariq, with no access to our usual channels from Thames House….and we can't ask the French to compromise their source…Beth, have they…'

'Just got off the phone with their southern area chief. Hussain, that's our guy, hasn't been seen or heard for 18 hours now. Nothing at the cell's usual meeting point. Nothing at his office. But two of the cell members are on their way to Paris.'

'How? By car?' Harry asks sharply.

'Yup. Rental paid for in cash. The French had had them followed since we told them about Hussain. They'll keep us posted.'

Ruth rubs her eyes. 'OK. This is what we're going to do. Dimitri, Beth, you stay here and keep an eye on those guys. Harry….I think that…I mean, I know it's not ideal but…'

'I agree but we have no choice', he says flatly, without looking at her.

'What are you two talking about?', Dimitri asks. He's been mostly silent so far, observing the tension between Ruth and Harry, wishing things could have been different, in so many ways…

'Ruth and I will….' Odd that he can't even say it.

'We are in need of a holiday. We've never been to Cassis but have heard great things about it. Or Marseilles, for that matter. And so we need to rent holiday accomodation', Ruth says, taking great care not to look at Harry.

'No way', Dimitri says hotly. 'We can't have you two out in the field, without backup, without cover…we can't even make you fake passports or credit cards or…no way. Let Beth and me go, and you can deal with the Paris end of it.'

'No', Ruth replies calmly, with newly found authority. 'I don't like the sound of those guys coming up here. If something is being planned, it's more likely to be here, in Paris, than in the South. So you need to stay here and liaise with the French. Harry and I…we'll be fine. Just a middle aged..' She stops, tensing against the pain… 'English couple who want to make the most of out of season low prices.'

'You're not middle aged, Ruth!', Dimitri protests – rather inanely.

'Dimitri, that's enough, Harry cuts in sharply. 'Ruth is your section chief, and I happen to agree with her. As for papers…we can ask the French. For comms…' He draws two hundred pounds in cash from his wallet. 'Go and get four pay as you go phones. Four different shops. Plenty on the Champs Elysee avenue, not far from here. As soo as you bring them back, I'll phone Tariq via a secure channel, give him the sim cards numbers, and have him switch them over to unlimited calls and texts and 3G access.'

'Beth', Ruth interjects as Dimitri leaves the room, 'you can stay here at the centre. Both of you in fact. Can you liaise with the French over our legends? Good. You go now and talk to them. We need to leave as soon as possible.'

She waits until Beth has left. She no longer feels in control. She swallows, her throat dry. 'Harry, can we…'

'Car rental. I'll sort it out as soon as I have our legend documents. Say a couple of hours….it will mean driving through the night though.'

'We'll take turns.' She clenches her fists in her pockets. 'I'll book the holiday place', she offers as neutrally, as blandly as she can.

But for a fraction of a second, her mask has slipped. He moves towards her. 'Ruth…are you sure that…? I know it's hard, I know that…but…'

She stiffens. 'Don't worry. It'll be fine', she says in a clipped voice. 'As you said…we don't have a choice.'

She has drawn her shutters down, and he can't reach her. He suddenly feels very alone.


End file.
